Gemma Hardman - Issue 35

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While the World Burns

I apply face cream

as the world splits open.

Soft circles under my eyes

while a siren slices through a continent.

The jar clicks shut

as a mother searches for her son

beneath rubble and skyfall.

I whisper goodnight

while someone wails into silence.

In my kitchen, the kettle clicks off.

Somewhere else,

a breath gives up mid-prayer.

What do we do

with all this ordinary?

The cat still needs feeding,

the bins still go out on Fridays,

and beauty still climbs the trellis

even as someone curls around their own body

trying not to scream.

The duality is unbearable.

Wedding rings and body bags.

Lullabies and airstrikes.

Newborn cries echo

through maternity wards

and refugee camps alike.

And still,

someone paints their nails.

Someone washes blood off the walls.

Someone laughs at a meme

while another stands barefoot in ash.

Some days, I can’t hold it all.

The guilt of being safe.

The grief of being human.

The miracle of not being gone.

But I smooth the cream in,

not because it makes sense,

but because it doesn’t.

Because my heart

learns to beat

through contradiction.

Because someone has to

notice the petals,

even as they fall.

Even as the smoke rolls in.